


And If I Say Yes

by reedswrote



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reedswrote/pseuds/reedswrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*X-Men:First Class HighSchool!AU* "Charles Xavier comes into a world accompanied by a whole lot of chaos and sound - cries of pain, sighs of relief, and exclamations of joy. None, of which, he can hear." Charles is deaf, Angel is lost, Erik has anxiety issues, and Moira is just trying to find something real. Includes marble school halls, not so clueless parents, and real love. ,</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charles Xavier comes into a world accompanied by a whole lot of chaos and sound - cries of pain, sighs of relief, and exclamations of joy. None, of which, he can hear - so once he's gotten over the strange, new, bright lights, and a world in which he's no longer floating and confined he has no problem at all closing his eyes and falling back asleep fairly quickly.

Years later, when Charles thinks about it when his mother tells the story of the worry she felt when he only cried for a brief moment, he figures it was easiest then to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else. Back then, at only a few minutes old, he guesses he was wishing he was back in that familiar nameless place that was his mother's womb. Now, well… now it's gotten a bit more complicated then all that.

**8.8.8**

"It will be fine, Charles," his mother assures him, choosing to use her voice as her hands busily fuss with his coat. It's wool, the dark blue one she loves on him, and it's much too itchy - he can do it himself, and he raises his hands to, _again_ , tell her, but she easily brushes his arms aside while efficiently buttoning up the last two buttons he's left undone and straightening his collar. All without looking, making sure he can see her lips the whole time. "And why isn't your hearing aid on? You know I can always tell. "

He squints his eyes, steely and annoyed, and she squints back, hands still against his shoulders. After a few moments he lets out a sharp breath through his nose and presses the button on the back of the stupid thing. Noise floods back into his world and his mother smiles at him. "It won't be that bad, Charles."

 _I hate Dad's work things_ , he signs, sitting heavily in the couch, messily enough to ruin his mother's work on his coat and surely the shirt underneath. _They give me those looks_.

"No they don't." But she turns away as she fastens her earrings so he can't tell if she really means it. "The Salvadores will be there, so Angel will be too-"

"Stop trying to make us hang out, Mom."

"Nonesense, you two have been friends since you were both in the womb. She's practically family." She's right, they are like family. But Angel is that cousin that ruffles your hair too roughly and dresses you up like a girl when you're too young to know any better. "And so will Lana and Carl," she continues, and even though he doesn't let it show, Charles does feel cheered by the fact that Moira will be there – all of these things are so much easier to get through when she's there.

There's noise in the hall, a closet opening and closing, and his father pokes his head in.

"Everyone ready?" He's been told he's a spitting image of his father more times than he can count, but Charles never did see it. He's thicker than Charles, taller too, and has a certain impression of authoritativeness about him, whereas Charles is sure, by the way all the other boys are in that stage of 'shot up' rather than 'shooting up,' and he's resolutely stuck at 5'5, he's built more like his mum – short and skinny. "Lithe," his mother always admonishes him. "Lithe and graceful. Like a dancer." He always tells her that he'd rather not be built like a ballerina, but she just laughs at him, tinkling melodies that fill whatever space they're in.

"Yes," his mother finishes fastening her own coat and looks to where Charles is sitting on the couch. He rolls his eyes and gets up, following them to the front door. Although he's aiming for annoyed rather than anxious, the way his mother's hand rests soft and warm on his cheek for a moment proves that he may not be doing such a great job of it.

**8.8.8**

_Why isn't Angel at this table_? Moira shrugs and continues to fish through her purse, looking for her phone probably. It never seems to matter what _size_ her bag is, it has the _inside_ of a bottomless pit. He's seen her arm disappear down to the elbow in simple, slim clutches. He tries to focus on his father, he's up on stage now, giving his speech on breakthroughs in his own biological research. Or rather, he focuses on the very pretty woman in a long, plum dress, elegant slim fingers signing every word. He wonders if his father requests the translator or if she's always around for events like these.

… _discrepancies in some cells, that is more than a little fascinating. Giving suggestion that if we were to let them be in the petri dishes they would evolve into a very unique DNA strand, the likes of which…_

And Charles is good at science. Wonderful at it, he, and Moira, and Angel (even if she were to deny it) are, but it's still dreadfully boring sitting in the dimness with other family members, tenured teachers, scientists, deans of schools, and intellectuals abound that all nod their heads in apparent fascination. There is still one more speaker after is father, but thankfully enough she comes on after dinner has been served. Across the table, his mother is smiling slightly to herself as she listens to his father speak and when she catches his eye she signs _Not that bad, right?_

It is and it isn't, but he doesn't say that. He's caught a few glances his way, mild curiosity and mild surprise mingling when they hear he's Professor Xavier's son. They eye his hearing aid, but make no alluding to the irony of the pioneer of internal biological perfection having a _clearly much_ less than perfect son. His mother is still gazing at him. He smiles back at her and studies her profile until he feels Moira's cool fingers press into the palm of his hand, along with the edges of crumpled paper. He looks down and sees a small sheet of lined journal paper. It's pink and lavender with little green leaves around the edges.

**You, me, tonight? –R**

It takes him a few moments before his brain gets into gear. _Raven?_ he signs lowly, beneath the edge of the table, and looks up to see Moira smiling hard, but she's holding it in so her lips are pressed against her teeth _. She finally asked you out?_ She nods.

 _She slipped it into my bag fourth period. Jesus I can't wait to finally get my hands on her_.

 _Too much information_ , Charles fakes a grimace and Moira shoves gently at his knee _. I am happy for you though. It's finally happening for you_. He doesn't like the look she gives him, always too astute for her own good, and he raises his hands before she can raise her own. _You think it's going to be serious?_

She eyes him for a second longer, but lets it go for now. _I don't know. Maybe. I'm just focused on getting my head between_ -

 _Ok, you really need to stop_.

Moira lets out a gust of silent laughter and he hands her back the note. Even if it doesn't turn out to be anything spectacular, or heavy, Moira is the kind of girl who likes to keep little things like that. Keeps lockets, and notes, and old t shirts of the people she's been involved with even after they're over and done with.

He watches her fold it into a square neatly, smooth it out, and stick it back into the abyss of her little bag. He looks at her, at her profile, stunning and classic, her hair in soft waves. She's beautiful and the kind of girl everyone wants to either be or be with. She's lovely, and sometimes Charles doesn't know what she's doing with him, of all people, to keep close to her side.

**8.8.8**

The lights lift and Erik blinks as everyone around them applauds politely. The girl he's been sitting next to the whole time stretches her arms out, wide and uncaring about anyone who happens to look at her askance. He didn't expect her to care, not after ignoring the looks they both received when the lights had dimmed and she immediately leaned over to ask who he was here for.

"My dad's trying to impress some tramp he picked up at work," he'd told her, wincing a bit at how harsh it sounded. "He's a Biology buff, but usually comes by himself."

"That sounds dead awful," she'd held out her hand, and he shook it. "I'm Angel, nice to meet you. Are you single?"

"And gay."

"Aw well, figures. All the best looking ones are." She'd smiled though. "It's ok, I guess. Now I can just appreciate how handsome you are objectively."

"Oh, thank the Lord, we can finally move," he groans now. He's been to a couple of these over the years, ill-thought out bonding experiences his father would sometimes conjure up, and can never get over how long they seem to be. All around them people are starting to get up and shift, chatting among themselves and waiting for dinner to be served.

Angel laughs and gets up herself, smoothing the wrinkles out of her purple pencil skirt. She gestures for him to follow her and she turns away to walk across the room. "Yeah, we can. I know it feels like forever, but the food is always the best at these things. And," she leans in and lowers her voice, and he leans down to hear her better, "it's so easy to get some glasses of champagne. Especially since I got these." She uses her eyes to gesture down to her breasts, the silky white top with tiny black polka dots open enough to reveal a little of the somewhat impressive cleavage she has going. "It's ridiculously easy, I just do this little smile and wink move and bam. Free alcohol. I'll hook you up." She seems to notice Erik's puzzled look and she shrugs. "I was a late bloomer. I just got these after, like, four years of torturous gym locker room changings. I'm taking full advantage." She grins up at him again and Erik can't help but grin back. There's something endearing about this girl - usually this kind of forwardness would have him uncomfortable (his neck is a little red, already) but there's a twinkle in her eye, clever and sharp that has him gravitating towards her.

"No champagne for me this time, but thanks."

"No problem." Erik doesn't know where they're going, but Angel seems to have a good idea, so he doesn't ask. "So, are you going to St. Mary's?" Erik nods. "Almost half way through junior year, though? That's a little late."

"Yeah, well," it's his turn to shrug, and even though it must be obvious that there's something he isn't saying, she doesn't push.

"Well, don't even worry about it. I've already designated you my heart-breakingly, handsome, gay best friend." He feels her elbow push into his side, playfully, and he nudges back. They arrive at a table where there are some other kids their age, two middle aged couples, and another couple, a little younger, one half of which is the speaker who introduced the idea of significant mutations in stem cells. Angel greets the older couples in a manner that makes Erik like her even more, utterly polite and charming, as if butter wouldn't melt on her tongue. She greets the speaker and his wife more personally, still unfailing polite, but warmer, a way that shows extreme familiarity.

The politeness drops when she turns to the younger patrons of the table, but the familiarity stays the same. "Heard about you and Raaaaven." She draws the word out and the girl whips her head around quickly before getting up and tugging at Angel's hand, pulling her away from the chatting, laughing adults.

"Shut up," she hisses. "And who told you about that?"

"I've got ears everywhe- ow!" She rubs at her elbow where the girl pinched it. "It was Sean, ok."

"And who told Sean?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask. Bitch." Angel turns to Erik. "This is Erik, I met him at my table. He's coming to Mary's. Erik, this mess of a girl is my cousin."

The girl is small and thin like Angel, but where Angel is exotic and somewhat wild, Moira is pale and regal looking. She screams good upbringing in her simple navy dress and a string of pearls, but her smile in genuine and warm, sweet when she turns to notice him for the first time. "Oh. Uh, hello, nice to meet you. I'm Moira."

"He's gay, so simmer down," Angel gripes. Moira rolls her eyes and her pleasant expression doesn't change.

"I've got a chance with Raven. THE Raven. No offense," she looks to Erik and takes a sip of her water, "but I'm not even thinking of you right now. She's gorgeous. I mean, amazing. Tall, and blonde, and legs up to _here_. She runs track-"

"Where's Charles?" Angel interrupts, obviously used to this. She looks slightly indignant, but Moira turns slightly, and reaches a hand behind her, and suddenly she's pulling a short, young man forward, the one from the table, to stand beside her. "Here." She turns to Erik, poised and still managing to be elegant even after getting so nearly salacious about this majestic creature, Raven. "Charles, this is Erik…"

"Lensherr."

"Ohhh, Jewish. Very nice."

Moira ignores Angel. "Lensherr. And Erik, this is my brother, Charles." He's short, a lot shorter than Erik (who is now 5'11 and not at all finished growing) and slight. He's pale like Moira, and they even have the same brown hair, although Charles' seems a bit lighter, golden hues instead of oak like his sister's. But what grabs Erik's attention immediately are his eyes – they're ridiculously large and round, a spectrum of light and deep blues framed by absurdly long, full lashes. Those eyes are staring at him stare at them and he shakes his head to clear his mind, to find something to say, but it's not working.

He stares at Charles, whose cheeks are slowly flushing a creamy, delicate pink that's so utterly lovely it makes his heart beat stutter a little out of time. He hears Angel giggling softly beside him and can see the coy twist of Moira's mouth, but he can't push out anything more than a "Hi, nice to meet you," and even those words he feels stumbled past his lips.

Charles nods and gives a crooked little smile in his direction and Erik's heart does the tiny stutter again. Small. Minute. Barely even noticeable.

Dinner is being served and everyone is milling about to get back to their seats. "Is there room for two more at your table?" Angel asks and it breaks the slightly awkward tension. Moira nods. They make their way back to where everyone is back in their seats and Erik and Angel settle in.

The dinner is a seared polenta with a perfectly cooked, round, thick steak on top, drizzled with a sweat pear reduction and froi groi. The dinner here _is_ pretty swanky, and he tells Angel as much, to which she nods enthusiastically and steals his whole pear slice from his plate. It doesn't matter, not really because Erik is too busy watching Charles.

He's pretty. _Jesus_ , he's pretty for a boy. The longer Erik looks at him, the more he notices – the blue of his sweater is perfect, bringing out every one of his assets, hugging his torso perfectly while managing to bring out the blue in his eyes and the pink of his cheeks. His ears are a little too large, along with his nose. But they both work on him, adding to his disarming look. His lips are soft and pink, and when he smiles he's got a dimple on his left cheek. He's got a hearing aid in his right ear, and his fingers are long and tapered in a way that makes Erik think of pianos.

He tries to catch the boy's eye, but he doesn't look at him. Not directly. His glances are fleeting and quick, and the moment Erik tries to smile, or talk, or do _something_ Charles looks away. It would frustrate Erik till no end, and it does to an extent, but then Charles will smile at something Moira or Angel says or signs, and the frustration seems absurd.

Moira's fingers move in another series of motions Erik doesn't understand, ASL, one of the few languages he has yet to master. He drinks it in, the fluidity, the purpose behind each finger and both hands. Charles scoffs at whatever she's said and he signs rapidly back. And then she laughs, loud and bright, hands flying rapidly, fingers poking him lightly on the arms, fluttering at his sides and he brushes her hands away even though he's smiling too, already signing back. Erik knows he's staring, but he can't look away, not when there's a shock of hair hanging into Charles' bright blue eyes. And there's that bloody dimple, _right_ there...

**8.8.8**

He learns that they aren't really related, not by blood. But Angel has known Charles since before they were born, their parents best friends. "There are probably baby photos of us bathing together floating around _somewhere_ ," Angel had said a little too loudly. She'd disappeared for twenty minutes earlier and came back with a slight sway in her step, cheeks flushed from flutes no doubt, and grinning like mad. And they met Moira and her parents when they all lived Africa while their parents did research to help the AIDS epidemic.

"And _our_ parents travel and work together more often," Moira gestures between herself and Charles who briefly meets Erik's eyes-

_Small. Minute. Barely even noticeable-_

"While, t _his_ one is always near the ocean, on the beaches, while Charles and I are stuck here. Or in Europe freezing our nuts off."

"In the same of science," Angel giggles and rolls her eyes. "They make it seem like they're in parkas and shivering on the tundra," she says to Erik. "Dad allows us all to come along sometimes. Sends word to the housekeeper, yada, yada. Remember spring break, last year. That was nice. We found those jellyfish on the shore and dissected them, remember." They all nod in unison.

He's slightly envious of them; not because of all of the travel. He's done his fair share, but even when it was all three of them, him, his mother and father, it always felt a little lonely. This close knit friendship these three have from years together, growing up playing in the brushes of Africa, or being bored to hell while their parents hunched over microscopes, is apparent. It's something tangible, and real, and lasting.

Something he has yet to find.


	2. Chapter 2

Shrill and demanding his alarm screeches at six-thirty a.m. and Erik jerks awake. He’d fallen asleep too late again, his mind unable to shut off, pulse just this side of too fast; he’s sure he’s been woken up in the middle of a REM cycle. He moans low in his chest and sits up in bed, rubbing at his eyes, cocoon of warm blankets slipping down to pool around his waist. He stares listlessly at the wall, riding out the screeching of the alarm and when it finally stops he swings his legs over the side of the bed, switches it off, and looks around his dim room.

It’s different. So mightily different from the little house in mostly Hasidic Brooklyn he and his parents lived in before his mother was killed a block away from their front door. It hasn’t even been three months, but his whole life has flipped upside down. Instead of the cramped inner city he grew up in, now all he sees when he looks out of the window is green. Pastures upon pastures, cut by swathes of pavement or cobblestone roads that lead to estates just as large or even larger than this one. Horses roam in some fields, cows in one, and Erik still can’t believe he’s still in New York. “Just upstate son,” his father had said to him, almost absent-mindedly as they’d neared the house for the first time. Erik had eyed the large gates that opened up to the pathway that led to their home and didn’t answer.  

His mother wouldn’t have liked it. It wasn’t just the law firm his father owned that brought in money, but he was from old money, born to a man whose own father was a not-so-distant relative of royalty. Despite that fact, he’d always done as she’d requested – regular house, three bedrooms and a basement made up for guests, nice cars that weren’t too flashy, an education that was a little expensive, but nothing outrageous. But now she was dead and gone. Instead of pressing a kiss to her cheek nearly every morning in the kitchen Erik  is either greeted by nothing, or a ‘secretary’ from his father’s practice rummaging around in the fridge, too skinny legs sticking out from the hem of the shirt his father wore the day before.           

He doesn’t know what’s worse.

He stares the clock for two more minutes, watching the numbers flip over, and finally hefts himself out of bed and into the shower.

**.8.8.8.**

“This is like 90210,” Erik tells Angel and she shakes her head, smiling. “Or the OC, or Tree on a Hill, or whatever show it is where the school is way too nice and the kids are way too rich.” He’s not used to this; his mother had insisted that he’d go to the little Jewish school that she’d gone to as a child. It was one of those deals where everyone spoke Hebrew in the halls, bragged about Bar Mitzvah venues, and carried Pre K to twelfth grade all in one building - each graduating class approximately fifty, if one were being generous.  

 Bais Yaakov Dgur took up the corner of a very busy intersection where Erik had almost been hit by a taxi twice. Here at St. Mary’s College Prep, the pantheonesque building rests on more hills, little annexes and focus buildings nestled all around campus, soft paved roads leading to each one. It’s surrounded by trees, not too dense, but enough to make it seem like they dropped the campus into the middle of an orchard field. It’s not apparent after entering the gates, but there are stables in the back. Inside, the hallways are shiny and camel colored, a marble pattern Erik hoped was faux, just for the mere fact that the idea of just the floors in this place costing more than the entirety of his old school blew his mind. There were columns and archways, thick green carpets in the lounges, heavy wooden oak doors for both the classrooms and lockers, and the cafeteria carried hefty water bottles of expensive mineral water.

 “What does your dad do again?” he waits for Angel to finish changing out books and close her locker, leaning against the wall and watching all the students drift by. A boy with messy blonde hair, uniform tie a bit too loose, tugs on her ponytail briefly, his stride never faltering. She doesn’t even spare him too much of a glance. “Who was that?”

“Alex.” She’s turned away to walk down the hall and he falls into stride easily with her. “And my dad’s a marine biologist. One of the best; he has a resume like Jacque Cousteau – they _call_ him the next Jacque Cousteau.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, he’s always in Croatia, or Greece, or the Caribbean, diving for new species, capturing mermaids, always trying to find that Loch Ness monster or whatever the hell it is.” There’s slightly bitterness to her voice they both ignore. He hears it in his own voice when he talks about his own father these days. “And your dad is…?”

“A corporate lawyer. If you want the proceedings of a hostile takeover to go smoothly, you hire my dad.“ The bells rings and instead of the metal bangs he’s used to, there are heavy dull thuds from the wooden locker doors all closing at the same time. Everyone in a school uniform rush to where they need to be, and he and Angel duck into the classroom on their left. Long tables fill the room, stools around each one. The lab, at least looks like any other school lab he’s been in with posters of bodies broken down across from the Table of Elements and a skeleton in the corner. Students are still settling in or darting in behind him last minute before the teacher closes the door.

He’s halfway across the room when he looks up and sees Angel is heading for one of the last tables in the back. Its other seats are already occupied by a few students he doesn’t know. And then there’s Moira. And Charles. Immediately he feels his heart rate pick up, but he still follows Angel when she walks to the back and sits heavily on the stool across from both of them.

**.8.8.8.**

Charles ignores the first kick he feels against his calf when he sees Angel making her way across the room with the same boy from the dinner Saturday night. Erik Lensherr. He rolls the name around on his tongue, the taste familiar by now. He’s been mouthing it all weekend when he’s alone, shaping his lips around the letters like the other boy had done. He can feel those deep green eyes on him, _looking_ at him,  and he doesn’t know Erik Lensherr at all, but he’s never been looked at like that before. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about it but he has a pretty good idea.

Moira kicks him again, and annoyance flares in his gut at having been tugged from his thoughts. He kicks back, not too hard, but enough for Moira to make her scowl at him.

The class settles in, chatting amongst themselves as Mr.Shaw writes equations on the whiteboard. Charles looks down at his own notes; not that he needs to – he has it all memorized but Erik keeps looking at him. Glances from underneath his lashes or from the side, so subtle that if Charles wasn’t used to reading body language he probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“Alright!” Shaw claps his hands together. “Welcome back. It’s been a long time since yesterday afternoon.” There are little titters and smiles. Mr. Shaw’s one of those men who ages incredibly well, a forty something that looks thirty-something. He wears wire rimmed glasses and button downs tucked in khakis that always end in the same worn in soft toe shoes. Charles has never really liked him; despite his apparent easy-going attitude there was always a slightly sinister air in the sharp way he graded papers or stirred his coffee in the corner of the cafeteria.    

Now the man uses his thumb to push his wire frames further up his nose and crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m in a good mood guys – no traffic this morning, I haven’t had to write one F so far on top of one of you geniuses’ papers, and I get to give you all a pop quiz.” The class groans and he rolls his eyes. “You have no idea how lucky you are – It’s verbal.” He leans back to perch on the edge of his desk. “Let’s get started.”

He looks to Thomas in the front and Charles settles in to guess the right answer, but his attention is stolen - a notepad is being pushed over to his binder. He looks up – Erik is looking engrossed in the lesson, but he’s using the eraser of his pencil to push the little book towards him. His own eyes fly back to Shaw who isn’t even facing their direction and he casually reaches to take the notepad into his hand.

**Hi**.

Charles stares down at the two letters, (and purposely not in Moira’s direction) mind a little blank, and it feels as if he moves on auto pilot when he picks up his pen and prints out, **Hello**.

He doesn’t miss the little, fleeting smile that passes over the other boy’s face when he reads the word **. We didn’t get a chance to really speak the other night** , ( _and that’s being generous,_ he thinks, because he’d avoided interacting with Erik as much as possible that night. It was obvious that he didn’t understand sign language and the thought of having Angel or Moira translate for him, for some reason, embarrassed him.) **I’m Erik**.

**I’m Charles**.

**Your father was impressive**.

**Yes, he’s clever. I’m waiting for the trait to show up in myself one of these days**.

**One day :p**

Charles smiles down at the book. **You wound me**.

**Hah. I’m kidding. I see your stack of A++’s from here**. And Charles wonders how Erik knows he gets such good grades, but then he notices his pocket folder is stuffed with exam papers marked with 105’s and 110’s.

He shrugs **. I’ve got to make the best marks, don’t I? When my father is changing the evolution of mankind, one helix strand at a time. If I can’t ace chemistry I am officially the black sheep aren’t I? :)**  

**Must be nice. I’m in AP but I barely got in. Most of this stuff’s just jumbles and aggressive symbols to me**.

He stares down at the words and gets the rush of the idea to offer to tutor him. Suggest it casually, and it would be casual. It definitely wouldn’t be a big deal. Erik probably wouldn’t take him up on it anyway… He knows he’s been looking for a little too long and he scratches at his ear, fingers bumping against his hearing aid. **It’s not that bad,** he writes finally.

He watches as Erik begins to write, a little hunched over, and when he shifts Erik gets as far as **Maybe we coul** \- before he hears his name ring sharply through the classroom.

“Mr. Xavier?”

Charles blinks and looks at Mr. Shaw. He’s staring at him, impatience in every line of his face. Everyone is looking at him, heads swiveled around to face towards the back. “Uh,” and he feels his face flush, doesn’t meet Erik’s eyes when he says, “What?” the word too angular and clumsy sounding. God, he hates verbal quizzes. Verbal anything, really.

Shaw stares at him for a few more moments and repeats his question. “PES?”

“Photoelectron spectroscopy, which provides a means in which to engage students in the use of quantum mechanics to interpret spectroscopic data and extract information on atomic structure from such data.” He rambles it off, speaking as clearly and quickly as he can and is just glad that he got thrown a soft ball.

“Good.” Shaw turns away and focuses his attention on Emma Frost at the very front of the room. “The current, most accepted model of an atomic structure?”

Everyone who’s still facing his way turns around in their seats and he can feel the heat in his cheeks. He feels Moira’s foot against his leg again, but this time it’s to hook around his ankle. He doesn’t’ look at Erik for the rest of the thirty minutes left and when the bell rings he’s not the first one out, but sure as hell isn’t the last one either. Not that it really mattered anyway – it’s not like Erik seemed intent on continuing their conversation. The little notepad had disappeared.

**.8.8.8.**

“So, what’s up with Charles?”

It’s chilly out, colder than it has been the last couple of days. But it’s no surprise; it’s already the middle of October. For the most part the branches are still full of dark oranges and reds but there are quite a few of the leaves on the pavement. The sun drips brightly through the branches as they walk and he lends Angel his sunglasses.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask about him.” She slips the shades on and sways into him, bumping her shoulder against his arm. “Ummm, welllll. What do you wanna know?”

“Is he gay?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.” Erik gives her a look. “I’m serious! I’m not keeping his secret or anything. Even though I would if he ever asked me to. But he hasn’t. Not yet anyway. I mean, I’m _pretty_ sure he is. I _know_ I’ve seen him checking guys out before, and I think he and Moira had a crush on the same guy last year. Even though I’m sure she didn’t know.”

“So he dates girls?”

Angel shakes her head. “Charles doesn’t date anyone. _I’ve_ never seen him actually go on a date, anyway. Moira might know better than I would, though.”

Erik sighs. He thought asking Angel about Charles would be the fastest and safest route but it isn’t working out that way. The only other person he could ask would be Moira, but he’s almost certain she’d tell Charles. He feels a vague wave of anxiety in his stomach at the thought.

“Look,” Angel says, spinning around to walk backwards in front of him. “I know, I’m failing as gorgeous new best friend by not giving you the goods. But I know so many other things about him! He’s a sophomore for one. Technically. He skipped a grade. I’m sure he could have graduated college by now, but he’s sticking this whole freak show out. He’s funny. He has a soft spot for Curious George. He only comes along on those trips with us to the ocean because he’d be so bored back here alone – he gets the worst sunburn. I almost rather him stay home. Or at least in the house. What else? Oh, he loves Gelato. He won’t touch ice cream and thinks that frozen yogurt shouldn’t be allowed. And don’t get him started on snow cones…”

Erik feels his mouth curling up into a smile.

They walk in silence for a few moments. “I think you should go for it,” she says quietly.

“And why’s that?”

She shrugs. “A feeling.”

**.8.8.8.**

The next morning he gets to the school early on purpose and makes his way to the large annex. The secretary’s hair is obviously too dark to be natural and her makeup, though heavy, is expertly applied. She stops typing, short pumpkin orange nails glinting in the florescent lights, and looks up at him when he walks up to her desk. His palms are slightly sweaty when he rests them lightly atop the visiting center. “I’m Erik Lensherr. I know I have advanced German as my seventh period elective, but is it possible to change that?”

“Sure,” and she sounds as if she’s come straight from New Jersey. “To what, hun?”

“American Sign Language?”

The secretary raises her eyebrows slightly, but still asks how she spells his name. “A new, beginner class instead of an advanced placement? It won’t look as good on your applications. And it’s not the easiest to get down.”

Erik shrugs and tucks his new itinerary into his back pocket. It’s still warm from the printer. “I can always take it next year.” The secretary, Cynthia McGarity the plaque on her desk reads, nods her head as if to say ‘That’s true.’

“Alright then, Mr. Lensherr. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Erik ducks out of the office and makes his way towards his locker.

 


End file.
